play dressup and pat themselves on the back every year. Wow, stop the fucking presses.

It is with great pleasure that I say, Fuck Anne Proulx. Fuck her and the high horse she rode in on. Instead of congratulating the people who took her little shitty, 11-page finger fuck fantasy about macho cowboys who are *really gay deep down inside*, because all men are, she writes a petulant essay on how the movie won as many Oscars as King Kong, which apparently to her is the equivalent of Soul Plane sweeping the major awards. Her petulant essay is really a thinly-veiled excuse for her to bitch and moan about The State of Hollywood, and How Fake It All Is Out Here. Except for the Independent Spirit Awards, which were like, fun. Fuck her. Had that movie won Best Picture, her ass wouldn't have written shit. And what really pisses me off is the fact that she could have taken a couple of those sentences and congratulated Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, you know, the writers of the film, for essentially turning water into wine. In other words, she pissed away the chance to, you know, actually show some class.

What's funny is, the same Indie awards she praised featured pretty much the same people she slammed at the Oscars.

What's next, an essay from J.K. "Harry Potter" Rowling on the decaying state of the Hollywood studio system?

Basically, Annie Proulx can go fuck herself. With a horseshoe.
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<------ And there it is.